The Spirit Witch | Bewitchment #1

One

1864, Transylvania, Romania

The reaping moon rose over Transylvania, a scythe of silver slicing through the darkness.

In the middle of the ink-black forest stood Charlotte de Winter, her blood-stained wedding dress streaming out behind her—ethereal, lovely, and wicked.

Then the stench hit her. Sickeningly sweet rot came hurtling through the pines on a gust of icy wind. A moment later, the rattle of carriage wheels echoed, husky and dry as bones.

Charlotte raised her cross bow, dug her heels into the dirt a little further.

And she waited.

He was coming.

No one else dared to be in this forest, on this night because of him, known only as The Endless One for the death he carried with him. His name was never spoken, if it was known at all. It was said to look in his eyes was to feel the most profound emptiness, until the body was rendered a shell of despair, left vacant for wandering, restless spirits to occupy for themselves.

The legend of The Endless One had haunted every heart and threshold throughout Transylvania and beyond, sowing seeds of terror, blossoming into roses of paralyzing fear for this creature, this nameless monster that no one had the courage to face.

Except for Charlotte.

When the reaping moon rose, as it did tonight, a delicate curve of silver against the blue-black sky, The Endless One would come down this road surrounded by ancient pines creaking and moaning in the wind, whispering their age-old warning.

Run.

Run while you are still alive.

The legend told of a carriage he drove, oily black, as rotten and fetid as he was, drawn by six massive stallions from Hell, the flames of Purgatory flying from their hooves.

As a child, Charlotte had witnessed the trail of charred hoof prints for herself on more than one occasion, traced her fingers around the curved sear marks that lingered in the soil long after the horses had gone.

Years had passed since then. She had traveled far and wide for her education—England and America, India and Japan. When she returned to Transylvania—her home, always and forever—the same tales were told, a little more gruesome and bloody than before.

Every legend, no matter how twisted and fanciful, held a kernel of truth buried deep within it somewhere. Now, tonight, she was to see for herself just how much truth those stories contained.

In the distance, the carriage came skidding into view, never touching the earth. Through the gray shadows of the night and the silver glow of the moon, Charlotte could barely make out the silhouette of The Endless One as he slapped the reins against the stallions' backs, driving them wild and hard.

Straight for her.

Charlotte stood her ground. She raised the crossbow, anchored it against her shoulder.

"You will come no further!" she called, her voice bold in the trembling darkness.

The carriage pulled up short and the stallions stamped their black hooves, sending up sparks of fire that snapped orange, gold, and crimson at the night.

Slowly, The Endless One rose to his feet, the carriage swaying and creaking beneath him.

Charlotte's finger curled around the trigger of her crossbow, steady, resolute. To look at him was terrifying, this form that wasn't quite human. Shadow tentacles spread around him like fingers, grasping, pulling, tearing at the night, always hunger for more and never satisfied.